While Hullin was learning the disaster of our armies, and was walking slowly, his head bent, and an anxious expression on his face, toward the village of Charmes, everything went on as usual at the farm of Bois-de-Chênes. No one thought of Yégof's wonderful stories, or of the war: old Duchêne led his oxen to their drinking-place, the herdsman Robin turned over their litter; Annette and Jeanne skimmed their curdled milk. Only Catherine Lefèvre was silent and gloomy—thinking of days gone by—all the while superintending with an impassible face the occupations of her domestics. She was too old and too serious to forget from one day to another what had so much troubled her. When night came on, after the evening's repast, she entered the great room, where her servants could hear her drawing the large register-book from the closet and putting it on the table, to sum up her accounts, as she was in the habit of doing.
They soon began to load the cart with corn, vegetables, and poultry: for the next day there was a market at Sarrebourg, and Duchêne had to start early.
Picture to yourself the great kitchen, and all these worthy folks hurrying to finish their work before going to rest: the black kettle, full of beetroot and potatoes destined for the cattle, boiling on an immense pinewood fire; the plates, dishes, and soup-tureens shining like suns on the shelves; the bunches of garlic and of reddish-brown onions hung up in rows to the beams of the ceiling, among the hams and flitches of bacon; Jeannie, in her blue cap and little red petticoat, stirring up the contents of the kettle with a big wooden spoon; the wicker cages, with the cackling fowls and great cock, who pushed his head through the bars and looked at the flames with a wondering eye and raised crest; the bull-dog Michel, with his flat head and hanging jowl, in search of some forgotten dish; Dubourg coming down the creaking staircase to the left, his back bent with a sack on his shoulder; while outside, in the dark night, old Duchêne, upright on the cart, lifted his lantern and called out, "That makes the fifteenth, Dubourg; two more." One could see also, hanging against the wall, an old hare, brought by the hunter Heinrich to be sold at the market, and a fine grouse, with its purple and green plumage, dimmed eye, and a drop of blood at the end of its beak.
It was about half-past seven when the sound of footsteps was heard at the entrance to the yard. The bull-dog went toward the door growling. He listened, sniffed the night air, then went back quietly, and began licking his dish again.
"It is some one belonging to the farm," said Annette. "Michel does not move."
Nearly at the same time, old Duchêne from outside called,—"Good-night, Master Jean-Claude. Is it you?"
"Yes. I come from Phalsbourg; and I am going to rest myself a minute before going down to the village. Is Catherine here?"
And then the good man came forward to the light, his hat pushed off his face, and his roll of sheepskins on his back.
"Good-night, my children," said he; "good-night! Always at work!"
"Yes, Monsieur Hullin, as you see," replied Jeanne, laughing. "If one had nothing to do, life would be very wearisome."
"True, my pretty girl, true. It is only work which gives you your roses and brilliant eyes."
Jeanne was going to answer, when the door of the great room opened, and Catherine Lefèvre advanced, looking piercingly at Hullin, as though to guess beforehand what news he brought.
"Well, Jean-Claude, you have returned."
"Yes, Catherine; with good tidings and bad."
They entered the large room—a high and spacious apartment wainscoted with wood to the ceiling, with its oak closets and their shining clasps, its iron stove opening into the kitchen, its old clock counting the seconds in its walnut-wood case, and the leathern arm-chair, worn and used by ten generations of aged men. Jean-Claude never went into this room without its bringing back to his remembrance Catherine's grandfather, whom he seemed still to see, with his white head, sitting behind the oven in the dark.
"Well?" demanded the old dame, offering a chair to the old shoemaker, who was just putting his pack down on the table.
"Well, from Gaspard the tidings are good; the boy is in good health. He has had hardships. All the better: it will be the making of him. But for the rest, Catherine, it is bad. The war! the war!"
He shook his head, and the old woman, her lips pressed, sat down facing him, upright in the armchair, her eyes attentively fastened on him.
"So things look badly—decidedly—we shall have the war among us?"
"Yes, Catherine, from day to day we may expect to see the allies in our mountains."
"I thought so. I was sure of it; but speak, Jean-Claude."
Hullin, then, his elbows on his knees, his red ears between his hands, and lowering his voice, began to relate all he had seen: the clearing of everything around the town, the placing of batteries on the ramparts, the proclamation of the state of siege, the cart-loads of wounded on the great square, his meeting with the old sergeant at Wittmann's, and the story of the campaign. From time to time he paused, and the old mistress of the farm blinked her eyes slowly, as though to impress more deeply the various circumstances on her mind. When Jean-Claude told about the wounded, the good woman murmured softly—"Gaspard has then escaped it all!"
Then, at the end of this mournful tale, there was a long silence, and both looked at each other without pronouncing a word.
How many reflections, how many bitter feelings filled their souls!
After some seconds, Catherine recovering from these terrible thoughts—"You see, Jean-Claude," said she, in a serious tone. "Yégof was not wrong."
"Certainly, certainly, he was not wrong," replied Hullin; "but what does that prove? A madman, who goes from village to village, who descends into Alsace, and from thence to Lorraine—who wanders from right to left—it would be very astonishing if he saw nothing, and if he did not sometimes tell the truth in his madness. Everything gets muddled in his head, and others believe they understand what he does not understand himself. But what of these wild stories, Catherine? The Austrians are upon us. It only concerns us to know if we shall allow them to pass, or if we shall have courage to defend ourselves."
"To defend ourselves!" cried the old woman, whose white cheeks trembled: "if we shall have courage to defend ourselves! Surely it is not to me that you speak, Hullin. What! are we not worthy of our ancestors? Did they not defend themselves? Were they not exterminated—men, women, and children?"
"Then you are for the defence, Catherine?"
"Yes, yes; so long as there remains to me a bit of skin on my bones. Let them come! The oldest of the women is ready!"
Her masses of gray hair shook on her head, her pale rigid cheeks quivered, and her eyes sent forth lightnings. She was beautiful to see—beautiful, like that old Margareth of whom Yégof had spoken. Hullin held out his hand silently, and gave an enthusiastic smile.
"Excellent," said he—"excellent! We are always the same in this family. I know you, Catherine: you are ready now; but be calm and listen to me. We are going to fight, and in what way?"
"In every way; all are good—axes, scythes, pitchforks."
"No doubt; but the best are muskets and the balls. We have muskets: every mountaineer keeps his above his door; unfortunately powder and balls are scarce."
The old dame became quieter all of a sudden; she pushed her hair back under her cap, and looked anxiously about.
"Yes," she rejoined brusquely; "the powder and balls are wanting, it is true, but we shall have some. Marc Divès, the smuggler, has some. You shall go and see him to-morrow from me. You shall tell him that Catherine Lefèvre will buy all his powder and balls; that she will pay him; that she will sell her cattle, her farm, land, everything—everything—to have some. Do you understand, Hullin?"
"I understand. What you would do, Catherine, is noble."
"Bah! it is noble—it is noble!" replied the old dame. "It is quite simple; I wish to revenge myself. These Austrians—these red men who have already exterminated us—well! I hate them, I detest them, from father to son. There! you will buy powder, and these mad ruffians shall see if we will rebuild their castles."
Hullin then perceived that she still thought of Yégof's tale; but seeing how exasperated she was, and that, besides, her idea contributed to the defence of the country, made no observation on that subject, and said calmly,—"So, Catherine, it is settled; I am to go over to Marc Divès's to-morrow!"
"Yes! you shall buy all his powder and lead. Some one ought also to go the round of the mountain villages, to warn the people of what is coming, and to arrange a signal beforehand for bringing them together in case of attack."
"Do not fear," said Jean-Claude. "I will undertake to charge myself with that."
Both rose and turned toward the door. For about half an hour no sounds were heard in the kitchen; the farm-servants had gone to bed. The old dame put down her lamp on the corner of the hearth, and drew the bolts. Outside the cold was intense, the air still and clear. All the peaks round, and the pine-trees of the Jägerthal, stood out against the sky in dark or light masses. In the distance, far away behind the hill-side, a fox giving chase could be heard yelping in the valley of Blanru.
"Good-night, Hullin," said Catherine.
"Good-night."
Jean-Claude walked quickly away on the heath-covered slopes, and the mistress of the farm, after watching him for a second, shut her door again.
I leave you to imagine the joy of Louise when she learnt that Gaspard was safe and sound. The poor child had hardly been living for two months. Hullin took care not to show her the dark cloud which was coming over the horizon.
Through the night he could hear her prattling in her little room, talking as though congratulating herself, murmuring Gaspard's name, opening her drawers and boxes, without doubt so as to hunt up some relics in them and tell them of her love.
So the linnet drenched in the storm, will, while yet shivering, begin to sing and hop from branch to branch with the first sunbeam.
When Jean-Claude Hullin, in his shirt-sleeves, opened the shutters of his little house the next morning, he saw all the neighboring mountains—the Jägerthal, the Grosmann, the Donon—covered with snow. This first appearance of winter, coming in our sleep, is very striking to us: the old pines, the mossy rocks, adorned only the night before with verdure, and now sparkling with rime, fill our souls with an indefinable sadness. "Another year gone by," one says to one's self; "another hard season to pass before the return of the flowers!" And one hastens to put on the great-coat and to light the fire. Your sombre habitation is filled with a white light, and outside, for the first time, you hear the sparrows—the poor sparrows huddled under the thatch, their feathers ruffled—calling, "No breakfast this morning—no breakfast!"
Hullin drew on his big iron-nailed, double-soled shoes, and over his vest a great thick cloth waistcoat.
He heard Louise walking overhead in the little garret.
"Louise," he cried, "I am going."
"What! you are going away to-day also?"
"Yes, my child: it must be so: my affairs are not yet finished."
Then, having doffed his large hat, he went up the stair, and said, in a low tone: "Thou must not expect me back so soon, my child. I have to make some distant rounds. Do not be uneasy. If any one ask where I am, thou art to reply, 'He is with Cousin Mathias at Saverne.'"
"You will not have breakfast before leaving?"
"No: I have a crust of bread and the small flask of brandy in my pocket. Adieu, my child! Rejoice, and dream of Gaspard."
And, without waiting for fresh questions, he took his stick and left the house, going in the direction of the hill of Bouleaux to the left of the village. In a quarter of an hour he had passed it by, and reached the path of the Trois-Fontaines, which winds round the Falkenstein along by a little wall of dry stones. The first snow, which never lasts in the damp shades of the valleys, was beginning to melt and run down the path. Hullin got on the wall to climb the ascent. On giving an accidental look toward the village, he saw a few women sweeping before their doors, a few old men wishing each other the "Good-day" while smoking their first pipes on the threshold of their cottages. The deep calm of life, in presence of his agitating thoughts, affected him much. He continued his way pensively, saying to himself, "How quiet everything is down there! Nobody has any idea of anything; yet in a few days, what clamors, what rolls of musketry, will rend the air!"
As the first thing to be done was to procure powder, Catherine Lefèvre had very naturally cast her eyes on Marc Divès the smuggler, and his virtuous spouse, Hexe-Baizel.
These people lived on the other side of the Falkenstein, under the base of the old ruined castle. They had hollowed inside a sort of den, very comfortable, possessing one door and two skylights, but according to certain rumors, communicating with ancient caves by a rift in the rock. The custom-house officers had never been able to discover these caves, notwithstanding numerous domiciliary visits for that purpose. Jean-Claude and Marc Divès had known each other from infancy; they had gone nesting together after hawks and owls, and since that time had seen each other nearly every week at the saw-mills of Valtin. Hullin, therefore, believed himself sure of the smuggler, but he had some doubts of Madame Hexe-Baizel, a most cautious person, who would not, in all probability, have the war-like instinct sufficiently developed. "But we shall see," he said to himself as he went along.
He had lit his pipe, and from time to time turned round to contemplate the immense landscape, whose limits were extending more and more.
Nothing could be grander than those wooded mountains, rising one above the other in the pale sky—those vast heather plains, stretching as far as the eye could see, white with snow; those black ravines, shut in between the woods, with torrents at the bottom, dashing over the greenish pebbles polished like bronze.
And then the silence—the great silence of winter! The soft snow falling from the top of the loftiest pine-trees onto their lower drooping branches: the birds of prey circling in couples above the forests, screaming out their war-cry: all this ought to be seen for it cannot be described.
An hour after his departure from the village of Charmes, Hullin, climbing the summit of the peak, reached the base of the rock of the Arbousiers. All round this granite mass extends a sort of rugged terrace, three or four feet wide. This narrow passage, surrounded by the tall pines growing out from the precipice, looks dangerous, but it is safe; unless one feels dizzy, there is no danger in going along it. Overhead projects, in a vaulted arch, the rock covered with ruins.
Jean-Claude was approaching the retreat of the smuggler. He halted a minute on the terrace, put back his pipe into his pocket, then advanced along the passage, which forms a half-circle, and ends on the other side with a chasm. Quite at the farthest extremity of it, and almost on the edge of the chasm, he perceived the two skylight windows of the den and the partly opened door. A great heap of manure was collected in front of it.
At the same time Hexe-Baizel appeared, tossing, with a broom made of green furze, the manure into the abyss. This woman was small and hard-looking; she had shaggy red hair, hollow cheeks, pointed nose, little eyes, bright like two sparks, thin lips, very white teeth, and a florid complexion. As for her costume, it was composed of a short dirty woollen petticoat, and a coarse but clean chemise; her brown, muscular arms, covered with yellow hairs, were bare to the elbows, notwithstanding the excessive cold of the winter at this height; and, lastly, all she had on her feet were a pair of long shoes hanging in shreds.
"Ha! good-day, Hexe-Baizel," Jean-Claude called out, good naturedly but with a tone of raillery. "You are always fair and fat, happy and lively! It gives me pleasure!"
Hexe-Baizel turned sharply, like a weasel surprised on the watch; her red hair stiffened, and her little eyes flashed fire. However, she calmed down immediately, and exclaimed, in a curt voice, as though speaking to herself, "Hullin—the shoemaker! What does he want?"
"I am come to see my friend Marc, fair Hexe-Baizel," replied Jean-Claude; "we have some business to settle together."
"What business?"
"Ah, it only concerns us. Here let me pass that I may speak to him."
"Marc is asleep."
"Well, he must be awakened then; the time is precious."
So saying, Hullin stooped under the door, and penetrated into a cavern, whose vault, instead of being round, was composed of irregular curves, scored with fissures. Close to the entrance, two feet from the ground, the rock formed a sort of natural fireplace, on which burned a few coals and branches of juniper. Hexe-Baizel's culinary utensils consisted of an iron kettle, a stone pot, two broken plates, and three or four tin forks; her furniture comprised a wooden stool, a hatchet to split wood, a salt box fastened to the rock, and her large furze broom. To the left of this kitchen was another cavern, with a curious door, larger at the top than at the bottom, closing by aid of two planks and a cross-bar.
"Well, where is Marc?" said Hullin, seating himself near the hearth.
"I have already told you that he is asleep. He returned home late yesterday. My husband must sleep, don't you hear?"
"I hear very well, dear Hexe-Baizel; but I have no time to wait."
"Then go away!"
"Go away? It is easy said; only I won't go away. I did not walk three miles, to turn back with my hands in my pockets."
"Is it thou, Hullin?" interrupted a brusque voice coming from the neighboring cavern.
"Yes, Marc."
"Ah! I'm coming."
The sound of straw in motion could be heard; then the wooden barrier was withdrawn; and a huge frame, three feet broad from one shoulder to the other, wiry, bony, with neck and ears brick-color, and thick brown hair, appeared in the doorway, and Marc Divès drew himself up before Hullin, yawning and stretching his long arms with a short sigh.
At first sight, the physiognomy of Marc Divès seemed peaceable enough: his low broad forehead, bare temples, short curly hair coming down in a point almost to the eyebrows, his straight nose and long chin—above all the quiet expression in his brown eyes—would have caused him to be classed among the ruminating rather than the wilder animals; but one would have been wrong in thinking so. Certain rumors were prevalent in the country that Marc Divès, when attacked by the custom-house people, had never any hesitation to use his axe or carbine to decide the dispute; to him were attributed several serious accidents which had happened to the fiscal agents; but proofs were completely wanting. The smuggler, owing to his thorough knowledge of all the mountain defiles and by-roads from Dagsburg to Sarrbrück, and from Raon-l'Etape to Bâle in Switzerland, was always fifteen leagues from any place where a wicked action had been committed. And then he had such an ingenuous look! and those who connected him with sinister tales generally finished badly: which clearly shows the justice with which Providence sways the world.
"Faith, Hullin," said Marc, after having left his lair, "I was thinking of thee yesterday evening, and if thou hadst not appeared, I should have gone expressly to the saw-mills of Valtin to meet thee. Sit down! Hexe-Baizel, give a chair to Hullin!"
Then he placed himself on the hearth, his back to the fire, in front of the open door, which was raked by all the winds of Alsace and Switzerland.
Through this opening there was a magnificent view: it might be compared to a picture framed in the rock—an enormous picture, embracing the whole valley of the Rhine, and the mountains beyond, which melted away in the mist. And then one could breathe so freely! and the little fire, which glimmered in the owl's-nest, was a place to look on, with its red light, after one had gazed into the azure expanse.
"Marc," said Hullin, after a short pause, "may I speak before thy wife?"
"We are as one, she and I."
"Well, Marc, I am come to buy powder and lead of thee."
"To kill hares, is it not so?" observed the smuggler, winking.
"No, to fight against the Germans and Russians."
There was a moment's silence.
"And thou wilt want much powder and lead?"
"All that thou canst supply."
"I can supply as much as three thousand francs' worth to-day," said the smuggler.
"Then I'll take it."
"And as much more in a week," added Marc, with the same calm manner and eager look.
"I take that also."
"You will take it!" cried Hexe-Baizel. "You will take it! I should think so! But who is to pay?"
"Hold thy tongue!" said Marc, roughly, "Hullin takes it: and his word is enough for me." And holding out his large hand cordially: "Jean-Claude, here is my hand: the powder and lead are thine: but I must have my price, dost thou understand?"
"Yes, Marc: only I intend paying thee at once."
"He will pay, Hexe-Baizel, dost thou hear?"
"Eh, I am not deaf, Baizel. Go and find a bottle of 'brimbelle-wasse' for us, so that we may warm our hearts a little. What Hullin tells me rejoices me. These rascally 'kaiserlichs' will not have the easy game against us that I thought. It appears that we are going to defend ourselves, and right well."
"Yes, right well!"
"And there are people who can pay?"
"Catherine Lefèvre pays, and she it is who sends me," said Hullin.
Then Marc Divès rose, and in a solemn tone, and pointing toward the precipice, exclaimed, "She is a woman indeed—a woman as grand as that rock down there, the Oxenstein, the greatest I have ever seen in my life. I drink to her health. Drink also, Jean-Claude."
Hullin drank, then Hexe-Baizel.
"Now everything has been said," continued Divès; "but listen, Hullin. Do not believe that it will be an easy matter to check the enemy: all the hunters, all the sawyers, all the wood-cutters and carriers on the mountains will not be too many. I come from the other side of the Rhine. They are so many—those Russians, Austrians, Bavarians, Prussians, Cossacks, and Hussars—they are so many, that the earth is black with them. The villages cannot hold them: they camp on the plains, in the valleys, on the hills, in the towns, in the open air—they are to be found everywhere."
At that moment a shrill cry was heard.
"It is a buzzard chasing something," said Marc, stopping.
But just then a shadow came over the rock. A cloud of chaffinches cleared the abyss, and hundreds of buzzards and hawks fought above them in their rapid flight, uttering loud screams to terrify their prey, while the mass seemed stationary, so dense was it. The regular movement of these thousands of wings produced, in the silence, a sound like that of dead leaves blown in the wind.
"That is the departure of the chaffinches of the Ardennes," said Hullin.
"Yes, it is the last passage: the beech-nuts are buried under the snow, and the seeds also. Well, then, look! there are more men over there than birds in this pass. All the same, Jean-Claude, we will get over them, so long as every one bears a hand in it! Hexe-Baizel, light the lantern: I am going to show Hullin our supplies of powder and lead."
Hexe-Baizel made a face at this proposition. "For twenty years," said she, "no one has gone into the cave. He can surely believe our word. We believe, for our part, that he will pay us. I will not light the lantern—no, indeed!"
Marc, without saying anything, put out his hand and caught up a cudgel from the pile of wood; thereupon the old woman darted into the nearest hole like a weasel, and, two seconds later, came out with a big horn lantern, which Divès quietly lit at the fire on the hearth.
"Baizel," said he, replacing the stick in its corner, "thou must know that Jean-Claude is an old friend of my childhood, and that I confide much more in him than in thee, old wench; for wert thou not afraid of being hanged the same day as myself, I should long ago have been swinging to a rope's end. Come, Hullin, follow me."
They went out, and the smuggler, turning to the left, walked straight toward the chasm, which projected over the Valtin two hundred feet in the air. He pushed aside the branches of a little oak, which had its roots down below, put forth his leg, and disappeared as though pitched into the abyss. Jean-Claude shuddered, but directly after he saw, against the side of the rock, the head of Divès, who called to him,—"Hullin, put out thy hand to the left—there is a hole. Stretch thy leg out boldly—thou wilt feel a step, and then turn around."
Master Jean-Claude obeyed, with some trepidation. He could feel the hole in the rock, he found the step, and turning slightly, was face to face with his comrade in a sort of arched niche, evidently abutting on a sally-port in times past. At the end of the niche there was a low vault.
"How the devil didst thou discover that?" exclaimed Hullin, much astonished.
"In seeking after nests thirty-five years ago. I was one day on the rock, and I had often observed flying from there a horned-owl and its mate, two splendid birds: their heads were the size of my fists, and the wings six feet broad. I could hear their young calling, and I said to myself, 'They are near the cavern, at the end of the terrace. If I could get round a little beyond the chasm I should have them! By dint of looking and bending over, I perceived at last a corner of the step above the precipice. There was a strong holly-bush at one side. I caught hold of it, put out my leg, and, faith, I found myself here. What a fight, Hullin! The old birds wanted to tear out my eyes. Luckily, it was broad daylight. They went at me like cocks, opened their beaks and hissed, but the sun dazzled them. I kicked them. Finally, they fell on to the top of an old pine-tree down there, and all the jays in the country, the thrushes, chaffinches and tom-tits, flew about them till nightfall, plucking out their feathers. Thou canst not imagine, Jean-Claude, the quantity of bones, rat-skins, leverets, and carrion of all sorts that they had heaped up in this niche. It was pestilential. I threw it all into the Jägerthal, and I discovered this passage. But I must also tell thee that there were two young ones. I twisted their necks and poked them into my bag. Afterward, I quietly entered, and thou shalt see what I found. Come!"
They slipped under the narrow archway, formed of enormous red stones, where the light threw only a flickering glimmer.
Thirty paces farther on, a vast circular cave, low in the middle, and formed in the rock itself, appeared to Hullin. About fifty little casks were arranged at the bottom in shape of pyramids, and, at the sides, a large number of ingots of lead and bales of tobacco, which filled the air with its smell. Marc deposited his lantern at the entrance of the vault, and regarded his hiding-place with gratification and a smile upon his lips.
"That is what I discovered," said he; "the cave was empty, only in the centre of it was the carcass of an animal, snowy white,—no doubt some fox, dead of old age. The rascal had known of the passage before I had. He slept safely here. Who on earth would have dreamed of pursuing him? In those days, Hullin, I was twelve years old. I immediately thought that this place might one day be of use to me. I did not know then what use. But, later on, when I had begun my first attempts at smuggling—at Landau, Kehl, Bâle—with Jacob Zimmer, and during two winters all the custom-house people were after us, the idea of my old cavern began to haunt me from morning till evening. I had made the acquaintance of Hexe-Baizel, who was then one of the farm-servants at Bois-de-Chênes with Catherine's father. She brought me twenty-five louis as marriage-portion, and we settled ourselves in the cavern of the Arbousiers."
Divès paused; and Hullin, who had become very thoughtful, asked him,—"This hole, then, pleases thee much, Marc?"
"Pleases me! Why, I would not go and live in the most beautiful house in Strasbourg for two thousand pounds a year. For twenty-three years I have here hidden my wares: sugar, coffee, powder, tobacco, brandy—everything goes in here. I have eight horses always travelling."
"But thou hast no happiness."
"I have no happiness! Dost thou think it is nothing to laugh at the gendarmes, excisemen, custom-house people; to enrage them, to outdo them, to hear on all sides, 'That rascally Marc—isn't he a sharp one! How he manages his business! He can do as he likes with the law and its agents,' and this and that. Hé! hé! hé! I can tell thee, I can, that it is the greatest pleasure in the world. And then the people like it: they get everything half price; one helps the poor, and keeps himself warm and well-off."
"Yes, but what dangers!"
"Bah! a customs'-guard would never think of crossing the chasm."
"I should suppose not," thought Hullin, remembering that he must cross the precipice again.
"At the same time thou art not altogether wrong, Jean-Claude. When I first had to enter this place with those little barrels on my back, I streamed with perspiration; now I am accustomed to it."
"And if thy foot slipped?"
"There would be an end of me! I would as soon die, spiked on a pine, as to cough weeks and months on a mattress."
Divès then shed the light of his lantern on the piles of kegs reaching to the top of the vault.
"It is the finest English powder," said he; "it runs like silver grains in the hand, and fires like Old Nick. No need to use much of it—a thimbleful is enough. And here is lead, unmixed with tin. From this very evening, Hexe-Baizel shall begin casting balls. She knows all about it, thou wilt see."
They were beginning to return by the path leading to the chasm, when suddenly a confused murmur of words began to fill the air. Marc blew out his lantern, and they stopped still in the darkness.
"Some one is walking up there," the smuggler softly said. "Who on earth has been able to climb up the Falkenstein in such snow?"
They listened, holding their breath, and their eyes fixed on the ray of bluish light which came down through a small chink into the cavern. Around the cleft grew a few shrubs, sparkling with frost; above, could be perceived the ridge of an old wall. While they were watching, keeping profound silence, there appeared at the foot of the wall a large shaggy head bound round with a shining circle, a long face, then a pointed red beard,—the whole standing out in curious relief against the white winter sky.
"It is 'The King of Diamonds,'" observed Marc, laughing.
"Poor devil!" said Hullin, gravely; "he has come to walk about his castle, his bare feet on the ice, and a tin crown on his head! But look! he is speaking: he is giving orders to his courtiers; he points with his sceptre to the north and to the south—all belongs to him; he is master of the heavens and earth! Poor devil! merely to see him in those trousers of his, with his dog-skin on his back, makes me cold all over."
"Yes, Jean-Claude, it produces on me the effect of a burgomaster or village mayor, who puffs himself out like a bullfinch, and blows his cheeks up, saying, 'I am Hans Aden; I have ten acres of fine meadows; I have two houses; I have a vineyard, an orchard, a garden, h-m! h-m! I have this and that!' The next day a little fit lays hold of him, and—good-evening. Mad, mad! who is not mad? Let us go, Hullin; the sight of this unfortunate who talks to the winds, and of his raven that croaks of famine, makes my teeth chatter."
They entered the passage, and the daylight almost blinded Hullin. Happily, the great height of his companion standing in front of him, prevented his becoming giddy.
"Lean firmly," said Marc; "imitate me: the right hand in the hole, the right foot on the step, turn a bit—here we are!"
They returned to the kitchen, where Hexe-Baizel told them that Yégof was in the ruins of the oldBurg.
"We knew it," replied Marc: "we have just seen him breathing the fresh air over there. Each man to his taste."
Just then the raven Hans, sailing above the abyss, passed the door with a hoarse cry; they heard the frost crackling on the bushes, and the madman appeared upon the terrace. He was haggard; and after glancing toward the hearth, cried out—"Marc Divès, clear out quickly. I warn thee I am tired of this disorder. The fortifications of my domains ought to be free. I cannot allow vermin to lodge where I am; consequently, thou must make thy arrangements." Then perceiving Jean-Claude, his face brightened—"Thou here, Hullin?" said he, "Art thou at length clear-sighted enough to accept the proposals that I have condescended to make thee? Dost thou feel that an alliance such as mine, is the only resource to preserve thee from the total destruction of thy race? If it is so, I congratulate thee; thou showest more sense than I gave thee credit for."
Hullin could not help laughing.
"No, Yégof, no! heaven has not yet enlightened me, or I might accept the honor thou wouldst make me. Besides, Louise is not old enough to be married."
The madman became again serious and gloomy. Standing on the edge of the terrace, his back to the abyss, he seemed quite at home, and his raven, hovering from right to left, did not trouble him.
He raised his sceptre, frowned, and exclaimed:
"Then this is the second time, Hullin, that I have made my demand, and for the second time thou darest refuse me. Now, I will renew it once again—once, dost thou hear? Then the fate shall be accomplished!"
Hullin, Marc Divès, and Hexe-Baizel herself burst into fits of laughter.
"He is a great madman," said Hexe-Baizel.
"I think thou art right there," replied the smuggler. "Poor Yégof! decidedly he is out of his wits. But never mind! Baizel, attend to me. Thou must commence melting balls of all sizes. I am going to start for Switzerland. In a week, at latest, the remainder of our ammunition will be here. Give me my boots."
Then stamping down his heels, and twisting round his neck a thick scarf of red wool, he unhooked from the wall one of those dark-green mantles such as herdsmen wear, threw it over his shoulders, put on an old worn hat, took a gourd, and shouted: "Don't forget what I have been telling thee, old woman, or beware! Let us go, Jean-Claude!"
Hullin followed him on the terrace without wishing good-by to Hexe-Baizel, who, for her part, did not deign even to go to the doorstep to see them depart. When they were come to the base of the rock, Marc Divès drew up and said, "Thou art going into the mountain villages, art thou not, Hullin?"
"Yes: that must first be done. I must warn the wood-cutters, charcoal-burners, and others, of what is going on."
"Without doubt. Do not forget Materne of Hengst and his two boys, Labarbe of Dagsburg, and Jérome of St. Quirin. Tell them that there will he powder and balls; that we are of the number, Catherine Lefèvre, myself, Marc Divès, and all the honest folks of the country."
"Calm thyself, Marc—I know my men."
"Then good-by for the present."
They shook hands warmly.
The smuggler took the path to the right, toward Donon; Hullin that to the left, toward the Sarre.
They were now at some distance from each other, when Hullin called out to his comrade: "Hé! Marc, inform Catherine Lefèvre, as thou passest by, that all goes on well. Tell her I am going into the mountains."
The other assented by a nod, and they both continued their different ways.
An extraordinary agitation reigned at that time all along the line of the Vosges: the tidings of the invasion which was approaching spread from village to village, and among the farm-houses and woodmen's cottages of the Hengst and the Nideck. The hawkers, wagoners, tinkers, all that floating population which is continually moving from the mountains to the plains and from the plains to the mountains, brought every day, from Alsace and the borders of the Rhine, many strange reports. "The towns," so these people said, "were being put into a state of defence; expeditions were being made to provision them with corn and meat; the roads to Metz, Nancy, Huningue, and Strasbourg were swarming with convoys. Everywhere you met powder and ammunition wagons, cavalry, infantry, artillery, going to their posts. Marshal Victor still held the route to Saverne; but the bridges of the fortresses were already raised from seven in the evening to eight in the morning."
No one thought that all this could bode any good. Nevertheless, though many were seriously afraid of war, and though the old women lifted up their hands to heaven, crying, "Jesus! Mary! Joseph!" the greater number were preparing the means of defence. Under such circumstances, Jean-Claude Hullin was well received by all.
The same day, toward five in the evening, he reached the summit of the Hengst, and halted with the patriarch of forest-hunters, old Materne. He spent the night there; for in winter the days are short and the roads difficult. Materne promised to keep watch over the defile of the Zorn, with his two sons Kasper and Frantz, and to reply to the first signal which was made from the Falkenstein.
On the following day, Jean-Claude started early for Dagsburg, so as to come to an understanding with his friend Labarbe, the wood-cutter. They visited together the nearest hamlets, reanimating the love of country in the people's hearts; and the next day Labarbe accompanied Hullin into Christ-Nickel's, the anabaptist farmer of Painbach—a sensible and respectable man, but who could not be prevailed upon to participate in their glorious enterprise. Christ-Nickel had only one reply for all their observations; "It is well, it is just, but the Bible saith, 'Put up thy sword into its place. He who lives by the sword shall perish by the sword.'" He promised them, however, to pray for the good cause: it was all they could obtain.
They went from there to Walsch, and had some hearty shakes of the hand with Daniel Hirsch, a former marine gunner, who agreed to collect all the people of his district.
At this place Labarbe left Jean-Claude to make his way by himself.
For eight days longer he beat about the mountain, from Soldatenthal, to Léonsberg, Meienthal, Abreschwiller, Voyer, Loëttenbach, Cirey, Petit-Mont, and Saint-Sauveur; and on the ninth day he reached St. Quirin and saw the bootmaker Jérome. They visited the pass of Blanru together; after which Hullin, satisfied with what he had done, took his way to the village. He had been walking briskly for about two hours, picturing to himself the life of the camp,—the bivouac, marches and counter-marches—all that life of a soldier which he had so often regretted, and which he now saw returning with enthusiasm—when in the far distance, amidst the shades of the twilight, he perceived the hamlet of Charmes in a bluish mist, his little cottage sending forth a scarcely perceptible line of smoke, the small gardens surrounded with palisades, the stone-covered roofs, and to the left, bordering the hill, the great farm of Bois-de-Chênes, with the saw-mills of Valtin at the end of the now dark ravine.
Then suddenly, and without knowing why, his soul was filled with a great sadness.
He slackened his pace, and thought of the calm, peaceable life he was abandoning—perhaps forever; of his little room, so warm in the winter, and cheerful in spring when he opened his windows to the breath of the woods; of the tic-tac of the old timepiece, and then of Louise, his good little Louise, spinning in the silence with downcast eyes, and in the evenings singing some quaint strain with her pure penetrating voice when they were both feeling weary. These reflections laid such hold of him that the slightest objects, every instrument used in his profession,—the long shining augers, the round-handled hatchet, the mallets, the little stove, the old closet, the platters of varnished wood, the ancient figure of Saint Michael nailed to the wall, the old four-post bed at the bottom of the alcove, the stool, the trunk, the copper lamp,—all these things impressed themselves on his mind like a living picture, and the tears came into his eyes.
But it was Louise, his darling child, whom he pitied. How she would weep, and implore him to renounce the war! And how she would hang on his neck, saying:—"Oh! do not leave me, Papa Jean-Claude! Oh, I will love you so much! Oh, surely you will not abandon me!"
And the honest fellow could see the terror in her beautiful eyes—he could feel her arms round his neck. For a moment he fancied that he might deceive her, make her believe anything, no matter what, and so account for his absence to her satisfaction; but such means were not in accordance with his character, and his sadness increased the more.
Arrived at the farm of Bois-de-Chênes, he went in to tell Catherine Lefèvre that all was going well, and that the mountaineers were only awaiting the signal.
A quarter of an hour after, Master Jean-Claude came down by the Houx road in front of his own little house.
Before pushing open the creaking door, the idea struck him to see what Louise was about at that moment. He glanced into the little room through the window: Louise was standing by the curtains of the alcove; she seemed very animated, arranging, folding and unfolding clothes on the bed. Her sweet face beamed with happiness, and her large blue eyes sparkled with a sort of enthusiasm; she even talked aloud. Hullin listened; but a cart happening to pass at the time in the street, he could hear nothing. Making a firm resolve, he entered, saying quietly: "Louise, I have returned."
Immediately the young girl, joyous and skipping like a deer, ran to embrace him.
"Ah! it is you, Papa Jean-Claude! I was expecting you. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! how long you stayed away! At length you are back."
"It was, my child," replied the honest fellow, in a more undecided tone, putting his stick behind the door and his hat on the table, "it was because——"
He could say nothing else.
"Yes, yes, you went to see our friends," said Louise, laughing: "I know all about it—Mamma Lefèvre has told me everything."
"What! thou knowest? And dost thou not mind? So much the better, so much the better! it shows thy sense. And I, who fancied thou wouldst have cried!"
"Cry! and what for, papa Jean-Claude? Oh, I am courageous; you don't know me yet—go!" She put on a resolute air, which made Hullin smile; but he did not smile long when she continued: "We are going to war—we are going to fight—we are going to pass up the mountain!"
"Hullo! we are going! we are going!" exclaimed he in astonishment.
"Certainly. Then are we not going?" said she, regretfully.
"That is to say—I must leave thee for a little time, my child."
"Leave me—oh, no! I go with thee; it is all agreed upon. Look, see! my small parcel is ready, and here is yours, which I have arranged. Don't trouble yourself, let me alone, and you will be satisfied!"
Hullin could not get over his stupefaction. "But, Louise," he exclaimed, "thou canst not think of such a thing. Consider: we must pass nights abroad, and march and run; consider the cold, the snow, the musketry! It cannot be."
"Come," said the young girl, in a tearful voice, throwing herself into his arms, "do not pain me! You are only making fun of your little Louise. You cannot forsake her!"
"But thou wilt be much safer here—thou wilt be warm—thou wilt hear from us every day."
"No, no. I will not—I must go too. The cold does not harm me. Only too long have I been shut up. I, too, must breathe a little. Are not the birds out of doors? The robins are out all the winter. Have I not known what cold was when I was quite tiny? and hunger also?"
She stamped, and, for the third time, putting her arms round Jean-Claude's neck,—"Come then, Papa Hullin," said she softly, "Mamma Lefèvre said yes. Would you be more naughty than she was? Ah, if you only knew how much I love you!"
The good man had sat down and turned away his head, so as not to yield, and did not allow himself to be embraced.
"Oh, how naughty you are to-day, Papa Jean-Claude!"
"It is for thy sake, my child."
"Well, all the worse. I will run away after you. Cold—what is cold? And if you are wounded—if you ask to see your little Louise for the last time, and she is not there—near you, to take care of you, and love you to the end—oh, you must think me very cold-hearted."
She sobbed, and Hullin could not stand it any longer.
"Is it true that Mamma Lefèvre consents?"
"Oh, yes—oh, yes—she told me so. She said to me,—'Try and make Papa Jean-Claude decide. I am willing, and quite satisfied.'"
"Well, what can I do against two of you. Thou shalt come with us; it is quite decided."
She gave a scream of delight which ran through the cottage,—"Oh, how kind you are!"
And with one rub she wiped all her tears away,—"We are going to be off, to take to the woods and to make war."
"Ah," said Hullin, shaking his head, "I see it now; thou art always the little gypsy. As soon try to tame a swallow."
Then making her sit on his knees:—"Louise, it is now twelve years since I found thee in the snow: thou wast blue, poor little one. And when we were in the cottage, near a good fire, and thou wert slowly reviving, the first thing thou didst was to smile at me. And since that time thy will has always been mine. With that smile thou hast led me wherever thou wouldst."
Then Louise began again to smile at him, and they embraced each other. "Now we will look at the packages," he said, sighing. "Are they well made, I wonder?"
He approached the bed, and was surprised to see his warmest clothes, his flannel-waistcoats, all well brushed, folded, and packed; and Louise's bundle, with her best dresses, petticoats, and stout shoes, in nice order. At last he could not help laughing and crying out—"O gypsy, gypsy! you are the one for making fine bundles, and going away without ever turning the head."
Louise smiled. "Are you satisfied?"
"I suppose I must be. But during all this piece of work, I will venture to say thou hast never thought of preparing my supper."
"Oh, it will soon be ready. I did not know you would return this evening, Papa Jean-Claude."
"That is true, my child. Bring me something—no matter what—quickly, for I am hungry. Meanwhile I shall smoke a pipe."
"Yes, that's it; smoke a pipe."
He sat down on the side of the bench and struck the tinder-box quite dreamily. Louise rushed right and left like a sprite, seeing to the fire, breaking the eggs, and turning out an omelette with surprising celerity. Never had she appeared so lively, smiling, and pretty. Hullin, his elbow on the table and his face in his hand, watched her gravely, thinking how much will, firmness, and resolution there was in this girl—as light as a fairy, yet determined as a hussar. In a few seconds she served him with the omelette on a large china plate, with bread, and the glass and bottle.
"There, Papa Jean-Claude, be hungry no longer." She observed him eating with a look of tenderness.
The flame sprang up in the stove, lighting clearly the low beams, the wooden stair in the shadow, the bed at the end of the alcove, the whole of the abode, so often cheered by the joyous humor of the shoemaker, the little songs of his daughter, and the industry of both. And all this Louise was leaving without any hesitation: she cared only for the woods, the snow-covered paths, and the endless mountains, reaching from the village into Switzerland, and even beyond. Ah, Master Jean-Claude had reason to cry "gypsy, gypsy!" The swallow cannot be tamed: it needs the open air, the broad sky—continual motion. Neither storms, nor wind, nor rain in torrents frighten it, when the hour of its departure is at hand. It has only one thought, one desire, one cry—"Let us away! Let us away."
The meal finished, Hullin rose and said to his daughter, "I am tired, my child; kiss me, and let us go to bed."
"Yes; but do not forget to awake me, Papa Jean-Claude, if you start before daybreak."
"Do not trouble thyself. It is understood thou shalt come with us." And seeing her mount the stair and disappear in the garret: "Isn't she afraid of stopping in the nest, that's all!" said he to himself.
The silence was great outdoors. Eleven o'clock had struck from the village church. The good man was sitting down to take off his boots, when he caught sight of his musket suspended above the door: he took it down, wiped it, and drew the trigger. His whole soul was intent on the business in hand.
"It is all right," he murmured: and then in a grave tone: "It is curious.... The last time I held it ... at Marengo ... was fourteen years ago, and yet it seems like yesterday!"
Suddenly the hardened snow cracked under a quick footstep. He listened: "Someone!" At the same time two little sharp taps resounded on the panes. He ran to the window and opened it. The head of Marc Divès, with his broad hat stiff with the frost, bent forward from the darkness.
"Well, Marc, what news?"
"Hast thou warned the mountaineers—Materne, Jérome, Labarbe?"
"Yes, all."
"It was time: the enemy has passed."
"Passed?"
"Yes, along the whole line. I have walked fifteen leagues through the snow since this morning to announce it to thee."
"Good; the signal must be given: a great fire on the Falkenstein."
Hullin was very pale. He put on his boots. Two minutes later, his large blouse on his shoulders and his stick in his hand, he softly opened the door, and with long strides followed Marc Divès on the way to the Falkenstein.